Memories of Memphis call to me as she whispers
in the humid air of this northern heatwave.
I recall the bricked road of Beale Street,
picnics with my little sister and mother
on the shores of the Mississippi River,
Fourth of July fireworks, shot off Mud Island.
Our two storied brick house, with the huge
front porch,where one could play while it rained.
Of childhood friends riding in a small herd,
our bicycles were our horses.
Throwing eggs on the sidewalk or car windshield
and watching them fry in the blazing southern sun.
Martin Luther King is shot, I am eight years old.
Just having the mind of a child, knowing he is somebody,
he is a father and children have lost their daddy.
I was filled with a great sadness.
Desegregation, busing, the new little boy in our gym class.
Students were to partner up for square dancing.
I saw a boy my age, with soft brown skin
and beautiful dark eyes.
Why was he left unchosen,alone?
I did not understand this and could sense his loneliness.
Walking up to him, taking his hand, feeling it's warmth,
we smiled at one another as we danced together.
Memphis, do you remember my name?
The Greater Canton Writers' Guild, Inc.
All poetry and artwork shown here is original and done by the author listed at the top of the page.
Memories Of Memphis